The Underground Librarian

What cats do before meeting curiosity sellers….

Cooking: As Requested

Posted by Tespid on August 26, 2015

Yonder Maeven Cake

Forgive me this is the fifth or so generation of this recipe. I have not baked it in a while and with that in mind, I will admit to my own methods of delicious in the kitchen that I do not always divulge. I will make an attempt this fall to create it again. Although it will be completely from scratch and possibly, time consuming. I have a honey soaked cake to bake as well before Christmas. If all goes right, both may become staples I the kitchen again.
Note: As I always, I abide in your intelligence and degree of skill in the kitchen. If need be get assistance. If you do not trust my measurements or choice of ingredients, substitute as your skill allows you to make sense of the recipe. The recipes are sound in my memory, but may not be in the completion. I have not touched the Yonder Maeven recipe in over six years. So it lead to forgetting a few nuances, moving away from the Lebanese grocer, and misplacing the recipe that I wrote the night after it was baked for the second time. Let us just remind ourselves the purchase happened during the first round at the bake sale at the church. That still makes me feel a little tingly and hungry inside. At work, they thought I pulled it out of an Old World recipe book. (Pride in cooking, indeed.)
So, the short cut is to use the Classic Yellow Cake Mix. For the water addition or if you substitute milk, make it hot by adding the juice and zest of one small orange to the liquid as well as 2 cinnamon sticks. Heat to a gentle boil. Remove the cinnamon sticks. Instead of oil, use the equivalent in butter. Mix the batter and set aside.

Overall, the baking assembly is a bit like a Streusel Swirl approach, so the key is in the filling.

For the filling:
½ cup of whole almonds
2” square of ginger root
½ teaspoon of Cardamom
2 Tablespoons of unsalted butter
¼ cup of dark brown sugar
1Tablespoon of flour

Pulverize and blend all the ingredients in a food processor. Set aside.
Butter a Bundt pan or angel food cake pan. Dust it with granulated sugar. Add 2/3 of batter to the pan. Sprinkle the filling over top leaving room for the batter to fill in on either side during baking. Add remaining batter.
Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 35-45 minutes. Cool Thoroughly for at least 15-30 minutes. Turn out and finsh off with a traditional icing from powdered sugar and water. 1/2 cup of powdered sugar may be enough for one to two teaspoons of water. Start with a little bit of water, otherwise you will be adding a large volume of sugar to get the right consistency.

Note: A nonstick pan is the only way to go on this. Otherwise, when cool, the crust may stick to the pan and cause it to break into chunks. If you choose to play it safe, butter and flour the pans only. Omit the dusting of granulated sugar.

Meanwhile I’m pondering food ingredients and breaking out the gastronomique encyclopedia I bought at the library on the book sale shelves. I can not seem to cook in this heat. So why not study and plan for the winter?

~Pastied Pastry Cook

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Cooking: As Requested

Posted by Tespid on August 26, 2015

Fried Corn
2 ears of corn shucked and rinsed. Scrape the kernels from the cob and reserve to the side.
If fresh corn is not available, use two cans of yellow corn. Pour off the preserving liquid, rinse with warm water, drain and set aside.
1 small onion finely chopped
2 cloves of garlic finely chopped
1-2 Tablespoon of unsalted butter
1-2 Tablespoons of Olive Oil
3-5 springs of fresh Italian Oregano. Rinse and gentle separate the leaves from the stem. Place in a ceramic bowl.
3-8 large leaves of fresh Genovese Basil. Rinse and chop fine. Place in the ceramic bowl with the oregano.
Sea salt
Fresh Crack Pepper
Juice of one large lemon

In a cast iron skillet melt the butter and heat the olive oil together. When hot, stir in the garlic. After a few turns with the wooden spoon add the corn. Toss in the oil mixture and stir every few minutes. Aim to tan or brown the kernels. Do not let them sit so long that they burn. So keep a close eye on the mixture. Once well browned on several sides, add in the onion and stir to distribute well. Transfer the corn into the ceramic bowl. Add in the lemon juice. Stir. Season to taste with the sea salt and fresh cracked pepper. Serve. To keep things quick and simple, omit the garlic and onion completely, or toss them in with the corn during the final seasoning.

W.H.Tespid ERT

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Writing: As Requested

Posted by Tespid on August 23, 2015

Love’s Last Pages

Terminal now, moving on from year thirty-seven.
I promised you before the altar that in my love I would not falter
Please be patient and give me time.
Give me time, for my steps have grown shorter and I have grown weary.
My reach has come shorter too.
So wait a while longer before you cry over me and the years gone by too.
No son and my breast milk gave yield to none ere you.
My finger tips combed the scalp through of no one but you.
My gait taught to lengthen and stretch trying to meet peaks at your height and breath.
Still these days my hands have grown smaller.
My breath takes a little longer to come through.
My reach matches in steps as I inch closer to you.
Though this is my reward to stand at heaven’s door,
I wonder where it was I forgot
the promise I made not to leave
has brought me even here distraught.
So I try not to notice that the altar before is more rugged and sturdy than whence I’ve prayed.
Close to you, I am, when I tend to waken from these fears
which have brought tears more often than naught.
Despite these days that have shortened my gait,
My right hand trembles longer when I grasp it into yours.
Kisses, now, more drool ridden in pools of self-reflection
And I have grown to be time’s love lorn fool.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved


Take out on Eighth and Wabash
Love is waiting till
the other shows up and
Still refuses kisses
On the hand,
On the forehead
Or the mouth.
Like a type of virginity that
Must last the century’s end.
I grieve for that occasion of loss.
Assuredly the stars sign that it will not be my triumph of love over shrewdness.
Shrewdness never bought me sex by any means.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

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Status Update

Posted by Tespid on August 23, 2015

With this type of pursuit and dedication, I assume the bookshelves will magically appear. Storage will now officially be a Bit&h. Should it happen again, I’ll try not to be a sell out this time, hunger or no hunger.

W.H.T. ERT

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Status Update

Posted by Tespid on August 23, 2015

SShh! Don’t tell. I’m breaking into the savings to buy books. Go figure. Education is liberation. Sh$! Crow footed and determined to fly…again.

~W.H.Tespid ERT

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Grace: Craft #1

Posted by Tespid on August 22, 2015

Ransack the office supply closet; you can do this on break. I do not do this very often and I may try to make a point of it after all. So, here is a share from my brain to your fingertips. It is simple and a good craft for anyone art impaired or muse tired to sell, not to mention the kids might like it as well.
Bookmarks:
Poster Board or any stiff paper cut to 2” x 10” strips
Contact Paper – Clear and an opaque pattern of your choice
Decorative Papers, Large Letters made of thin paper, etcetera
Paint, Markers, Pen, Crayons
Glue
Hole punch
Leather Lacing, Ribbon, Colored String (s)
Decorate four strips of poster board on both sides with your choice of materials. Focus on keeping the strip with low relief when painting or gluing objects onto it. For the first few strips keep it simple. As you get the hang of what seals well and what does not. You will be able to exercise your creativity with a better idea towards making a successful final product. Let the strip dry overnight if you have used paint. Cut two sections of clear contact paper. Remove the lining on the first and lay the piece on the table sticky side up. Place four or five prepared strips on the sheet leaving one inch between each strip. Take the second contact sheet and remove the contact paper. Place the clear sheet sticky side down on top of the first sheet. Use the back of a wooden or metal spoon to seal the contact paper sheet to each other. Remember to smooth out all of the bubbles. Cut out the encased poster board strips leaving ¼”-1/2” boarder all the way around. Take the time to smooth out more bumps and bubbles in the contact sheets. For each sealed strip punch a hole through the top that pierces through the paper. Take a length of string, ribbon, or lacing and tie it through the hole. For the opaque/printed contact paper, do not use decorated poster board strips. Once the contact paper is sealed, you will never see your hard work.
If you work the measurements and your craft supply stash, you may find this an easy craft for decorative gift cards and colorful labels for anything needing organization. BTW: I think contact paper can take indelible marker and erasable marker well.
I got something in my head as well. If I find it, I will post.

Found it! A better tutorial than I had to say the least:

http://www.clickinmoms.com/blog/diy-how-to-make-a-crown-of-leaves-tutorial-by-lori-frederick/

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Writing: As Requested

Posted by Tespid on August 21, 2015

Street Pharmacist on Feather Oak Trail
Tell me man! Tell me to rights.
Seriously though, how long is this high suppose to last?
I paid you plenty to see the face of God.
My chin hair ‘s stiff and my shoes rough shod.
I ain’t pretty and orderly now,
but somethin’ about my maker
I’s got to see about and how.

Getting’ dere dis way, if I miss dis train,
When and where is the next?
I’s confused my eyes suppose ta droop like dis?
My limbs too weak , too tired to rest?
Tell me man and tell me quick,
To see my lord, why I gots ta wait for some crack whore to suck my tits?
Dry I tell ya, arid like smoke.
I wanted a pill for this journey,
not a paper wound reed to toke.

Somewhere in these walls,
People gotta be crowded in bathroom stalls.
As it is all to delicate and sharp to take.
Wise woulda told me what path to make to
Sophia in her water logged breath
In this smoke, I’m libel to suffocate to death.

Tell me man. Tell me fast,
How long this high supposed to last?
I came up these stairs half past nine.
These same people so don’t tell
me you screwed with time.
Now I’m more aware than sunlight’s gaze.
I’m beggin’ you heaven afore
to loose me outta this cardboard and tin foil maze.

They say you the doc, you the cure,
You the preacher, and close to the all wise.
So take me up the back way through Jacob’s ladder and his heirs
Show me at least the right hand of saving grace and a jury of my peers.
I need to know to calm the screamin’ from all these fears.
Little black and lonely holding a bucket full of quarters
Drownin’ over briny tears.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

>12<
This is what I should have told you;“I cannot give you my virginity. It is wrapped up in a blanket somewhere in West Dallas wedged in the corner by some shop keeper’s back door.” By now the blood has dried. By now the flies have flown over the waste bin behind William’s Chicken and by the way, I am not truly sorry, ‘cept to tell that you are too late to make a decision and I far too tired to entertain.

What I should have said before he made himself comfortable in my bed; is that one day I aspire to live clean like a Catholic. I’ll not have to bide time with magazines and wanton pages, waiting for a knock at the door. I will have work, I hope of my own. For now I am frustrated at the lines you lay at my bedstead and the remained of today cannot possibly keep me as a woman and attentive like Holy Thursday. What comes by my mind for the third and fourth time is that I am not ready to take on this attachment as a burden. All this I say with a professional air thinking the posturing will lend me respect. You’ll have to drop by at a later date when you are ready to make a commitment to me and my errant thoughts.

What I should have said before slipping out of bed and barricading myself in the bathroom; These illicit meetings I am sure have brought me to another door where trembling and brine begin after gazing so sublime into mirrored panels. I have not given in to a scene I play to the point of losing face and soul. Still on the way to the seat I cannot find calm replete with stillness as three a.m. marches in.

I must learn to excuse myself.
I must learn to recuse myself.
I must learn to keep my trap shut or run.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

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Writing: As Requested

Posted by Tespid on August 20, 2015

>9<
“I don’t hear you”!
I no longer fear you anymore.
Once I refused to deride you,
now, not even bare nakedness can hide you.
For that I steered clear of tides and tears
supported by my childhood fears
that you nurtured past puberty’s years and into adulthood.

Year’s past I braced myself every morn
with your talk, fruitless wisdom and
aimless insults. I thought “to armor” with every drop of unflinching pride
Now, a war to give more reason to faithful observance of your walk with the dead.
I never quoted you as wrong and became wet, damp and diseased for not questioning.
The passions you paced out almost in time for every metronome click spoken for me to share.
Hidden in my core an ember to blaze,
this fire that made
you bend up and see the skies for once.

The crick in your lower lumbar
Never let you see the sun
In the aftermath of late noon
I never understood that I failed
day after day until my pain was public.
My blouse now ripped and head doused in ashes.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

>11<
On the eve of the fall even rarefied air catches thin wisps of fiberglass gone grey in motion. It’s not so fast you can’t see the delicately placed décolletage lumbering about corners bracing for impact. Even my face hides from the slow embarrassment of being revealed. Is it a foregone conclusion that intentional footfall breaks into a quick paced toe two-step. Careful don’t drop the bowl of cherries.

On the eve of the fall, I feel nothing for weeks ney months. I’ve been warned; preparations in tiny rolled pieces of yellow note paper. I am seeing only a small part of reality; eyes shaded by ghosts and expectations only a parent could imprint. It was dark before now and only just today, the afternoon light went dim. Before moon set, maybe I will see the room I am in and dress in nothing, but failed glory. “Go to Christ,” the voice whispers,” you’ll retrieve your sight as it should have been.”

On the eve of the fall, I’m wondering what to prepare and how. I’m closing my mouth as gnats fall into crevices under the tongue; still they wonder where to go and how. I am walking the sliver between home and homeless wondering if a side bag and extra pair of sock is enough. Tennis shoes or cowboy boots? I never seem to be ready for rattlers whether in or out of the bedroom.

I have not built my home upon sand, but
I have looked directly into the mantle of the Sun and gone blind.
I have dwelt in houses, never laying this head in a bed in a building called home.
On the eve of the fall, I can call no direction, nor summons.
I’m bent to watch it all in its own time.
My year will wait.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

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Writing: As Requested (Working Copy)

Posted by Tespid on August 18, 2015

Goosedown Feather
I.
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
Where my lover lays his head.
Bring it quick!
Bring it fast!
Afore this luck no longer last!

For I am a dark born one,
neither teetered nor tethered beneath the sun.
The power he has o’er my heart
enough make cinders a joyous flame to start

Pluck it from where he lays his feet,
a beginning this love must be replete.
With a passion laid low, reclined so far,
the distance is short between hearth and the evening stars.
For his love not to bear my tongue,
I forbid any other, this has to be the one.

Do it before his love arise.
Pluck it afore dawn’s robin blue skies.
Do it as if you didn’t care.
Do it toe to toe as ifyou were standing there.

II.
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
where my lover lays his head.
Call closer and remember this:
Bring it afore the crescent moon cornered high.
Bring it afore I can tell the first black lie
of my love poured out on heaven’s floor
Dare I say that I want more, more, more, more!

For I am a dark born one
Neither harbored nor harnessed by love’s son
The loneliness that pains through joy luck’s gate
has me wanton of love more this late.

Pluck it from where his hips lay high
Pluck two for the day I will cry and die.
Loose the strength of feathers ‘bued with lust’s height
(Trust me, I need it tonight)
Bring it with the haste of the heat of the sun
Let me see it before I’ve been burned and undone.

Do it before his love arise.
Pluck it afore dawn’s robin blue skies.
Do it as if you didn’t care.
Do it to my face as if you were standing there.

III.
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
where my lover lays his head.
Bring it afore the owl cries nigh
Bring it afore fumes of nightshade gather by and by.
Bring it before I cry.

For I ‘m a dark born one,
neither teetered nor tethered beneath the sun.
The grays of my ways give sway to pitch burnt bone black
This I take will not be given back.

Pluck the down from around his heart
This is where it should all start
Wait, the wax stag he is; he’d never stable here
My heart’s brazen conceit, hooved, never cloven,
never more to go rovin’ in pastures where I should not feast.
I’ll intone a sweet pea to catch his faint calm beat.
Rhythms to mind soothing balm for blooded feet.

Do it before his love arises
Pluck it afore dawn’s blue skies
Do it as if you didn’t care
Do it to my face as if you were standing there.

IV.
Bring me a goose down feather
From the bed where my lover lays is head
Bring it my friend
Bring it before my passions die and fear visits again
Once away
Him always to stay.

For I am a dark torn one
Neither teetered nor tethered underneath the sun
For the grays of my ways give sway
To pitch burnt bone black
This I take will not be given back
Deny me not!
Between us arms and souls soon to lock step.

Pluck it from beneath his tongue
Do it soon for
my desire is old and lingering
I do not bait and wait beneath the sun.
A drop or two of his sacred dew and I
Won’t go blind from lying to you.
His sweet words to my ear from water so dear
will cycle about to reflect my fears
For your sake please
Do not quibble or get hung in the process
Instead leave.
More is waylaid to less

Do it before his love arises
Pluck it afore dawn’s blue skies
Do it as if you didn’t care
Do it as if to my toes you were standing there

V.
Will you please?
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
where my lover lays his head.
Bring it in silence.
Bring it this way once.
Bring me the angel from the guardian tree
Who saw us together languishing peacefully.

Pluck it from the top of his head:
The tuft, the down, all the delicate feathers ‘round
The crown of his head.
Then we can put these longings to bed.

Wet with tears with still more work to do.
If you were in love I do it for you.
Wise woman’s tears wrench me away
For blood ties will no longer stay.
And you too will soon go away
For now I’ll have him
Till another comes and this pleas start over again.

For I am a dark torn love
Neither teeter nor tethered under no sun
The grays of my ways give sway to pitch burnt bone black
This I take will not be given back.

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Writing: As Requested…

Posted by Tespid on August 17, 2015

Unto the First Death Before Christ

I.

Cracked, possessed, racked with grief
I kneeled beside the porcelain tub
sensitive but no one to meet,
‘cept to look at myself
submerged in waters deep.

Every sliver of paper that made me who I am,
was, ever fantasized, and recollections fail me now.
Acid on white scripted from playmates older now.
A faint grey likened to my countenance brave then and how
then I had no shame,
then I need not shave.
For It was the age before turning and eyes searing the layered greens of jade.
Since then I took more umbrage to memories failure and I sought the shades.

Moments before I came to my watery grave
The flames cindered low in the basin as
I gave up every reminder that crippled my waist and hands.
Then a eulogy, I prayed to release
burdened baggage that long crippled hands, mind and waist.
Lost in words and pictures wrested from my eyes in former eons,
I begged to be crowned king of the mound in green spring ‘ere’ gone.
I wept for a childhood not just revisited but also repossessed.
I gave no thought to any accomplishment done best.
I wanted my freedom returned as the papers, photos and books burned.

Down the hole,
Trace no tear,
Down the hole,
I no longer live here.
My hands and heart can’t bear the brine.
No more tears for my childhood this time.
Down the hole,
I want welcome go,
Down the hole,
No one has to know.
II.
As it could,
As it were,
Three days later I mourned for the passing of her.
I swear I saw her soul
slip from hands and down the bathtub drain hole.
Three days gone and my hands are weak and limp.
Now it does not seem such a wise decision.
I wept.
I cried for more than a fortnight
and with every countenance of the sun becoming bleary eyed.
I committed paginated lyrical suicide and my soul went ahead with no guide.
Soon I split in two and fractured more.
Then hope arrived some four month’s later at another door.
Outside us in the sun, one bird walked away from the flock —
a recognition — it looked me in the face and did not break its gaze.
As if I had returned from a watery grave, learned to fly, and burdened joyously to sing.
Winged it was and gave me grace, kindness, and inner peace.
My soul visited me as winged consciousness.
The images may never cease.

– Copyright Niven Colette Constantine

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Wildcard: Thailand

Posted by Tespid on August 16, 2015

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Writing

Posted by Tespid on August 13, 2015

Been editing for three days and I have still yet to make a complete cycle through what I’ve written and unearthed once sandwiched in binders and stained with butter. I felt like taking a chance so I’ll share something that is waiting for a second, maybe third pass. May I never dowse the flames. May I continue to temper it raw. May the edge always be rough and cut in both directions. Enjoy.

Carol Ann’s Business Plan

I know this place
I’ve been here before
Rites about now I start beating my head in
Screaming, “You masturbating whore”.
Hands touch tile,
Maybe I’ll sleep a while longer.

I drank too much late Wednesday morn.
Licked coca-cola till bright gave way to night
Waited for cock to leave before moon rise height.
When nightingales rest I’ll turn on the light.

I’s got a reputation you see,
For lookin out the window
Draped in nothing but skin,
While the audience paces closer to the boxwood bushes below
Tempting further sin.
So, what is the obvious?
You know where I begin.

Left hand on hip
Cigarette in the right
As the ashes turn I
Make pretend with myself
Throughout the night.

Come first light,
Over Michael’s back gate,
I try to maintain composure
With faces plastered to glass.
Thursday’s first hint of light, I went up my ass
Leaving stewed mess on the floor.

At noon I can’t speak to my man cock soon enough.
I’ll take it on the chin tonight and cry on his tomato sauce splattered French cuffs.
Two dollars, a coupon, and an Obama 2008 election lapel pin.
Who do I begin to know?
Where is more important than when.

Confronted on the corner after three cups coca-cola on ice:
I married your father last night,
Too bad he forgot the ring.
Hand on hips and a black plastic round jiggles on the index finger; melody rings in my ears.
Cold cement room waitin’ for me
I’ll be silenced without an aria to sing.

~NCC

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Status Update

Posted by Tespid on August 8, 2015

I’ve been stuck in the hat for about a year. I’ve decided to pull myself out before someone else lays claim with a bright and cheerful “TaDa” without any meat to gnaw on. So, I just finished the goods and set the remainders in the refrigerator. The journey did not leave many marks on my memory but the voices of prostitutes buried amongst trees and adjacent neighborhoods started to resound in the relatively quiet drive. One said she was trying to get someone to talk to her. On a regular basis perhaps? What John’s say never stimulates the brain and what a pimp intimates leaves marks on every orfice. Then, I remembered almost the same words from my neighborhood years before. What I remember from her was that she needed a simple conversation just to escape reality for a moment I surmise. Then the requests begin: Can you wash my clothes? Can you clean my room? Can you run a few errands for me? She’ll pay a pittance of her income on a regular basis. You can even quit your job; I’ll support you. Sooner or later you meet the pimp and, well, the rest is history doused in lies and expensive clothing. After hearing that woman today all I could flash back is to the lies and seeming friendship. I fear for the unfamiliar and the mark not knowing what is happening behind the scene. Repaying kindness with vipers even I can not stand. Save the emotions for the emotive and empathetic alike. Save yourself the trouble by being wary.

I was quiet in the church. Even creeping over to the statue of St. Jude. I mused for hope in what I was told was the champion of hopeless causes, which made me think St. Jude plugged away for Christ in the darkest ebbs of the night. I was afraid he never say a star in his lifetime. As long as there are stars and planets around, even when the sun dies unto itself there will light abound. Forgive the sun for leaving behind a blue horizon and know there is more above to guide and widen the breech. Seeing light brings eternal hope that retiring deeper than the corona of the sun is an everyday possibility.

I made mental notes of little things, but I’ve since forgot. They will return to present mind, I hope.

Other than that, the first bit of a pot hole was a must.

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Cooking: As requested

Posted by Tespid on August 4, 2015

Jerry Rigged Ramen

Apoligetica Mea…. I was asked for this about a week ago, but I forgot altogether.

Dear friend, thanks for the reminder this afternoon.

Take one package of ramen, the two person serving package, place it in a Pyrex glass container with two cups of water. Slice into small pieces leftover baked chicken and add to the container. Cook in a microwave oven for five minutes. Once finished add the seasoning package along with a dash or two of chili powder, garlic powder, and cumin. If you are even more clever than that, roughly chop fresh cilantro and add it to the soup. If you are even more clever than that, add the juice of half or a quarter of lime. Stir gently to mix ingredients. You may want to wait a minute or two for the temperature of the broth to cool. After that, feast!

Sincerely hungry right now,

W.H.Tespid ERT

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U.K: Boards, Briefs, Bain and Cure

Posted by Tespid on July 21, 2015

  • Story image for underground social movements United Kingdom from VICE

    Bucharest’s Drug-Addicted Roma Are Being Left to Rot | VICE

    VICE16 hours ago
    A Trans Woman in Portland Was Just Convicted of Stealing Social Security by … A 20-minute drive from the underground ghetto in the sewers, …. He said lots of people from Ferentari love England because the …. and that there had been little movement in improving education or health care for Roma.
  • Story image for underground social movements United Kingdom from Noisey (blog)

    Mekons Finally Get Their Revenge: An Interview with Sally Timms of

    Noisey (blog)Jul 17, 2015
    The Mekons formed in 1977, in Leeds, England. …. And sometimes no one comes to the show but we just consider the shows a vehicle for our social life essentially. … there was the whole movement because there was a ton of racism, … of 1980’s house and then early 90s underground British dance music.
  • Story image for underground social movements United Kingdom from Daily Mail

    Meryl Streep, Helena Bonham Carter and Carey Mulligan star on

    Daily MailJul 15, 2015
    … in the suffrage movement, Pankhurst founded the Women’s Social and Political … to join the U.K.‘s growing suffragette movement led by Pankhurst. … women from all walks of life, who are eventually forced underground to …
  • ‘El Chapo’ jailbreak is both a Mexican and an American story

    The Conversation AUJul 16, 2015
    El Chapo incarnates everything that the United States pities and fears … drugs symbolised social challenges to established norms across the Western world. … and British-based HSBC facilitated over many years the movement of … underground paths not only for escaping law enforcement agencies, but …
  • You’re Not Racist But… : Irreverence, Bigotry and the Politically

    Huffington Post UKJul 13, 2015
    This was a slogan popularized by British Conservative MP Peter … It is often claimed that racism died with the civil rights movement and the … Or did they decide it was easiest to hide their racism so as not to lose social standing? … Racism is underground now, which makes it much more difficult to detect.
  • Haaretz

    Unprecedented Israeli Action Against Jerusalem Club’s Anti-Arab

    Huffington PostJul 10, 2015
    Beitar was founded in 1936 by members of the Beitar movement established in 1923 … para-military Jewish underground that waged a violent campaign against the pre-state British mandate authorities. … rooted in resentment against social and economic discrimination, rivals their disdain for Palestinians.
  • The times they are a-changin’ as NME becomes free sheet

    Financial TimesJul 6, 2015
    According to its owner, Time Inc UK, the NME is taking the next step … writers from the underground press brought a newly irreverent tone … Coverage has had to adapt to the emergence of new music movements, from punk to hip-hop. … The new scheme aims to broaden its operations to social media and …
  • Recovering New York City’s Black History

    Huffington PostJul 2, 2015
    The image was first uncovered by Philip Panaritis, a social studies curriculum … to Freedom: The Hidden History of the Underground Railroad (Norton) and … In British New York slavery expanded and was more tightly regulated. … While New York City and State became central to the movement to abolish …
  • Britain is wrong to reject fracking application: Kemp

    ReutersJun 29, 2015
    The railway is now part of the West Coast Main Line, Britain’s busiest … Dickens was ambivalent about the social and economic changes wrought by … subject to stringent conditions on traffic movements, control of noise, dust, … arrive at giant regasification terminals and be sent via underground pipelines, …
  • ‘I must save my life and not risk my family’s safety!’: Untold Stories of

    JadaliyyaJul 5, 2015
    … was raised and educated in the United Kingdom, and she was descended from … of the Muslim Brotherhood movement in Hama City during the 1980s, and … on her knees to climb down seven floors of stairs located underground until …. analysis of global and social media, I have analyzed representative …

Posted in Activism, Movements, Music | Comments Off on U.K: Boards, Briefs, Bain and Cure

 
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